


Shadows III: Decision

by Teland



Series: Shadows of Better Men [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-12-02
Updated: 1998-12-02
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: He needs me.





	Shadows III: Decision

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to ciceqi for beta!

I don't need him. I don't, not really. When I don't see  
him, he doesn't exist.

Unfortunately, he's become easier to see since last we  
spoke. 

A lot of what I do consists of waiting. Motel rooms,  
alleyways, well-appointed drawing rooms... it doesn't  
matter, really, because in the end it's just me and a  
clock. 

And at least the alleyways keep you sharp. Wind and rain,  
the sort of smells that demand further analysis... yes,  
alleyways are always best for the waiting. Not least  
because he's harder to see there. 

No mirrors, no televisions... at the most, all I need worry  
about is a chanced reflection in some oily puddle, when  
something in my own image reminds me far too much of the  
way he looked at me that night.

"I wanted *you*..." but that isn't what he meant. He  
*needed* me. It was in his eyes, in the way his shoulders  
twitched under the suit jacket. Come here so I can hold you  
close, taste you in every breath. And... and I told him the  
truth, I thought. That was always the plan, anyway. Never  
lie to Mulder about anything *important*, make him separate  
the two of us from everything else in his life. Something  
if not pure, then at least good.

I told him I didn't know if I felt the same way, and he  
understood, and he walked away. But that wasn't how it was  
supposed to go. He was never supposed to be the stupid one,  
not in this. 

Then again, according to him, *I* wasn't supposed to be the  
stupid one either. So we were both playing our little  
games, his, as usual, far more subtle than my own. So... so  
what if *his* "understanding" was really just the  
confirmation of a lifetime's worth of bad relationships? Of  
course I don't love him, no one ever has and no one ever  
will. 

I've spent my life believing that anyone can believe  
anything, so long as my goals are met. And if my goal was  
to cut him out of my life, then his little trip down memory  
lane should have suited me just fine, right? 

Right.

But I wouldn't hurt like this if I wasn't telling myself  
yet another lie in there somewhere. 

He *needs* me. I can see him now, watching and waiting for  
someone who's never gonna show up again... at least, not  
for anything other than business. I still have business  
with Mulder. I could tape this disk to his morning paper,  
and walk away. Or, I could go there right now and put this  
disk in his hand, and walk away. Or I could slip it in his  
pocket and see just how badly he needs me. 

It's a drug. I know I must be fooling myself to some extent  
here, but that need... that need in his eyes was powerful.

Unforgettable. 

Drugs are *nothing* but little bits of tweaked chemistry.  
Any addict will tell you that, when you get right down to  
it, it's the *need* that drives them on. Chemistry can be  
defeated with chemistry. Need... need can be beaten by  
nothing but will. And even then... it never goes away. Not  
really.

Mulder needs me. Wants me there to taste and touch and  
fuck. Wants to hear my voice, I know it. And the power...  
the power is meaningless.

Because somewhere along the way, I got myself a monkey on  
my back. A big, mean baboon with claws and fangs, and  
sometimes I think that if I turn around fast enough, I'll  
be able to see my spine in its paws. 

But I don't try. 

I know what *I* want. I know what I need. And that's to be  
looked at that way for the rest of my life. I'm needed for  
something I can damned well provide. Not just a service,  
but the idea that I'd do this thing for him. Because I...

Well, that's the problem.

What if I go to him, and offer myself, and he asks me why?  
Do I tell him it's because I want his body, miss the way  
his cock felt when it tried to ignite itself along the roof  
off my mouth? Or do I tell him something closer to the  
whole truth?

"Gee, Mulder, a funny thing happened when you looked at me  
like I was a steak and a beer in the desert..."

He's got that shrink training. How long before he figures  
out that he's the *only* one who has ever looked at me that  
way? 

That, in the end, my reaction to it could just be... just  
be that of a bird shown something shiny? That he's an...  
experiment.

I... I want to just go there anyway. I'm good at lying, and  
this... this is more important than any mere emotional  
concern. I have to *study* this reaction and find a way to  
cut it out of me. It's a liability, it could get me killed. 

And I've got a lot of shit to take care of, first. 

So I go, and I knock on his door, and if he opens his mouth  
to question I'll slip my tongue inside. Beg him with my  
body to show me just how much he needs me. And, presumably,  
I'd eventually figure out what it is he does to me with his  
need so no one will ever be able to do that again.

I want that. I can feel that. Like some shameless spirit  
has possessed my clothing, turning every casual brush of  
cotton into a caress. I could go there right now, and offer  
myself for his use, my edification, and our mutual  
enjoyment. 

And yet, I remain here. In this chair, in this room, in  
this nameless little motel. Waiting for... nothing. I have  
no orders, and I've already made sure that no one will miss  
the information I plan to give Mulder until he actually  
decides to use it. It will be too late, and my tracks will  
be covered.

But I'm still here. And there's no way I can convince  
myself that it's for any reason beyond not wanting to...  
not wanting to *do* that to Mulder. After all, I've already  
subjected his body to more experiments than he'll ever  
remember; there's no real reason to do that to his... mind.

I argue with myself about my needs, and my wants, and, in  
the end, it's meaningless in the face of hurting him again.  
There's no way to know I'd learn anything useful, even if I  
did. Because... 

Because, if this is love, then I'm already screwed. 

A million poets, mundane and sublime, can't be wrong. Just  
because I've spent the majority of my life laughing at them  
doesn't mean I'm God, after all. 

So, what if I love him? Is that reason enough to go to  
Mulder and make him touch me until he believes? Well, what  
do I usually do when I find myself hopelessly screwed?

First, find out how bad it is: I'm risking my health  
because I can't bring myself to hurt Mulder again. It's  
bad.

Second, damage control: Too late. The damage has already  
been done to me, I know it, I've been jerking off thinking  
about *one goddamned look* for far too long. But it's just  
possible that no one else knows about the weak spot.

I make a note to take a shot at him in public sometime.  
Just because.

Third, solutions: I've ruled out experimentation, so I can  
either just go and... do *something* to convince the man  
that I care about him deeply, or I can sit here. And wait. 

My shirt is just a shirt again, and it's too cold here. I'm  
moving to the door before I have any clue what I'm doing  
and stop.

Is this all it takes for me to go running after the man?  
No, I can hear myself say, I *also* "need" to give Mulder  
this information. I remind myself that he can get it just  
as well with his morning paper and there are a few moments  
of blessed silence, and there are a few moments where I'm  
not actively holding myself *back* from the door.

But the silence is brief. Love or no, I screwed myself the  
minute I acknowledged I wanted *his*... love. Uncomfortable  
to even think, but I doubt he'll ever make me say it out  
loud unless I'm blowing him at the time.

And there it is, right there. The assumption of a future.  
Easy as water, insinuating as any nasty rumor. I want him,  
and, in the end, that's reason enough for me to open this  
door, walk out into this parking lot, and drive this  
anonymous bag of bolts and stale fast food to Alexandria.

Where I'm needed. 

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


End file.
